She was now only a few yards—even if painful yards—from the Moffat house on the corner. She would go and see the Moffats, she decided; if the doctor was in, then he might even take a look at the blister and give her some cream for it. And if she asked, she was sure Mma Moffat would drive her home and save her continuing agony.

Dr. Moffat was at home, and while Mma Moffat made tea for Mma Ramotswe, he examined her foot.

“A very bad blister,” he said. “But I think we can save the foot.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up in alarm and saw that Dr. Moffat was smiling. “You worried me, Rra.”

“Just a little joke, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, peeling the covering off a small square of sticking plaster. “Your foot's fine. But tell me: Why are you walking? What's wrong with your tiny white van?”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “Oh, Dr. Moffat, I am very sad. I am very, very sad. My van …”

“Have you had an accident?”

“No, not an accident. My van is an old one. It has been my friend for many years—right from the time I came to Gaborone. And now it is like an old cow standing under a tree waiting for the end to come. I don't know …”

She faltered. She did not know what to do, and now she wept for the van that she loved so much. It was ridiculous, she thought, a grown woman weeping for a van. But Dr. Moffat did not think it ridiculous; he had seen so much of human suffering in all its shapes and sizes, and he knew how easy it was for people to cry. So he and Mma Moffat, who had come in with a cup of tea for their visitor, comforted her and talked to her about the little white van.

“One thing's very certain,” said Dr. Moffat. “It's the same for humans as it is for vans. When something needs to be fixed, don't just deny it. Go and see somebody—a doctor for a person, a mechanic for a van.”

“Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will just tell me it has to go. I know he will.”

“Then speak to one of those young men—his apprentices. Get him to fix it for you.”

Mma Ramotswe was silent as she contemplated this suggestion. She would never lie to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, but that did not mean that she had to tell him everything.

CHAPTER FOUR

MMA MAKUTSI MAKES
PERI-PERI CHICKEN

THAT EVENING, while Mma Ramotswe nursed the painful blister on her right heel, Mma Makutsi was busy in her kitchen, cooking dinner for her fiancé, Mr. Phuti Radiphuti, proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop and owner, too, of a large herd of fine cattle built up by his father, the older Mr. Radiphuti. Mma Makutsi knew what Phuti Radiphuti's culinary tastes were and had recently discovered that he was particularly partial to peri-peri chicken, a dish that the Portuguese had dreamed up in Mozambique and Angola. From there it had spread into other countries, including Botswana, where it was a favourite amongst those who liked their food to be scathingly hot. Phuti was one of these, she thought, and could happily chew on the most stinging of chilli peppers without the need of a glass of water.